


A Grand Way To Begin

by vir_adahlenn



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Meet-Cute, Slow Burn, beginning of a slow burn! slow burn! slow burn!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 08:17:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20239669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vir_adahlenn/pseuds/vir_adahlenn
Summary: Rewrite of the scene when Lavellan first meets Dorian at the Redcliffe chantry (added depth/detail + better companion dialogue+ a meet cute for a very slow burn? perhaps). Are we repressed? (yes) Are Felix and Dorian ex's??? (absolutely but you won't be told now) Will Lavellan and Dorian fall in love? (ssshhh...)





	1. Chapter 1

“Think it’s a trap, boss?” Bull asked, eyeing the large wooden door in front of them.

Bryn wiped beads of sweat off his forehead, catching his breath. They found themselves at the top of the hill in Redcliffe after climbing through layers of overgrown shrubs and vines to reach the clearly unkept back entrance of the village's chantry. The sun was on her way down for the evening, leaving behind a pale pink sky and a few lonely boats setting sail from the docks of Lake Calenhad below them. Bryn's thumb flicked over the crumpled note that the strange young man had jammed into his hand at the tavern an hour before. 

_ Meet at the chantry. You're in danger. _

"Probably. You have anything else to do tonight?"

Bull shrugged and raised a heavy boot to the door, splintering the wood straight through a carving of Andraste's tearlined face. Sera snorted, slipping inside with the qunari as Vivienne lingered behind to cast Bryn a disapproving scowl. 

"We could have just opened it."

"Could have, you're right," Bryn said, smirking as he drew his staff.

Their footsteps echoed on the stone floor as they entered a chantry hall that was quite unremarkable, perhaps even desolate, save for the gaping rift splitting open at the corner of the altar. Bryn let out a low breath, his hand twitching in the way it always did around these things. He should have expected as much the second they stepped into the building, but he found himself staring in shock at the way this rift widened before them, pulsating in its jagged rhythm. He had never seen one form indoors before, and it seemed much larger than usual, and angrier somehow, pushing against the walls and ripping up the wooden rafters. It was hard to make out at first against the twisted green light, but Bryn spotted two figures in front of the rift: a human, it seemed, locked in battle with a demon. 

“Good, you’re finally here,” the man yelled quickly, turning his head towards them for only a moment before facing the demon again. He raised a staff — sleek and ink black, carved to resemble three interlocking dragons — but the familiar pull of magic was missing, the air still. He brought his staff down hard, and he hit the demon with a sickening squelch, smacking it over the back several times.

“Help me with this mess, would you?” the man called as the demon crumbled before him.

Bryn blinked, surprised at the man's tactics. A thick, black liquid oozed from the demon at the spot the staff made contact, but there was no sign of any magical injury.

“Would you?” he repeated frantically as he raised his staff again, preparing for whatever other horrors were about to slither out of the Fade.

Before Bryn could respond, the spindly hand of a demon sprouted out of the chantry floor, sweeping Sera’s legs out from under her. She yelped and fell flat on her back, shooting a frantic arrow upwards. The arrow missed its target and flew towards the ceiling — and then it disappeared, right in midair, never making contact with anything. 

“What?” Bryn gasped. “Did you—”

But he stopped mid-sentence. When he turned around, Sera was on her feet, and the demon had vanished.

“How did—" Bryn sputtered, turning to see the blank faces of his companions. "Did your arrow just disappear?” 

Sera looked at him strangely, her bow resting at her side. 

“What arrow?” 

“It was — you just shot an arrow and it— ”

“I haven’t shot nothin’ yet, Inky. You want me to?”

“That would be appreciated!” the man’s voice rang from across the chantry. 

Bryn whipped his head around. Another demon had emerged from the rift, and again the man swiped at it wildly with his staff, arms flailing. The scene was almost funny — it could have been, maybe, if the situation unfolding in front of him made even the slightest bit of sense.

“Yes, alright, go!” Bryn commanded, shaking his head. “I’m going to get to the rift, if someone could cover me!” 

But as he stepped forward, all of his companions were in separate corners of the chantry, locked in battle against demons that weren’t there a moment before. It was as if everyone had been moved by an invisible hand in the time it had taken Bryn to blink. And then in another blink, the whole room shifted again, and Bryn found himself back to back with the strange man with the dragon staff and an arc of demons approaching them.

“Is there a reason,” Bryn said through gritted teeth, asking the only question that he could even begin to word in the moment, “you’re not using magic?”

“A sensible observation,” the man responded casually, kicking a candlestick onto the translucent body of a wisp wraith. The flame caught, and the wraith’s body turned a smokey grey before shriveling out of existence. “If a bit invasive. A friendly ‘how do you do’ might be a better choice when you meet someone next time— ”

“Answer the question,” Bryn said, his jaw locked. 

The man made another frantic swipe at a wraith lurching at them, but his staff passed straight through it. 

“Yes, well I — I may have run out of lyrium.” 

Frustration coursed through Bryn’s body and gathered in his palms, sparking into a wicked pulse of electricity. The lightning seemed to jump from his fingertips as he cast it out, crackling through the air and paralyzing the rest of the wraiths surrounding them. His fingers still pulsing, Bryn slipped a small vial of the deep blue liquid out of his belt and handed it to the man. He was taller than Bryn originally thought, with dark skin and broad shoulders. Tight leather armor clung to his body below an intricately stitched white robe, which was bunched at one shoulder and then flowed towards the floor, catching the air gracefully as he turned to accept the lyrium.

“Thanks,” the man winked, uncorking the vial with his mouth and taking the lyrium in one gulp. “Watch out.”

Bryn barely jumped aside in time as the man straightened his body and drew his staff across his chest. He moved in a way that Bryn had never seen from a human mage — almost like a dance, with the grace of someone well acquainted with the power to bend the world around them at their whim. A delicate blue fire spewed from his staff in a wide, blazing arc, and the wraiths surrounding them hissed and shriveled away, leaving a faint trail of smoke behind them.

“If I may make a suggestion,” the man said, rolling his neck and stretching his fingers out, surely feeling the strains of magic course back through his body. “I think now would be a good time to close—”

“Close the rift, yeah,” Bryn scoffed, stepping over the remnants of demon carcasses as he made his way towards the altar. 

The man smirked. “Read my mind, Inquisitor.”

The rift was the only thing that had remained still as the room twisted and changed around it, a shimmering green anchor at the center of it all. The air grew thick and heavy as Bryn drew closer to it, almost as if he was wading through the muddy waters of the lake at the bottom of the hill. Images sprung into existence around him, and Bryn stumbled, weaving his way through crowds of people who were not there before and seemed to melt right through one another. He lost sight of the mage. 

Light had always bent in a strange way around rifts, like sunbeams fracturing on rippling water, but it hadn’t been like this. No, never like this — images, people, worlds even — all appearing and disappearing and collapsing onto each other. A chanter, standing at the altar leading mass. And then a wedding, two people exchanging vows. And then bodies, dozens of bodies, stacked on top of each other. Bryn shook his head, reaching out to grab onto the rift, but his Mark couldn’t find it, his mind slipping. The Hero of Fereldan — young, impossibly young, and striking, her blonde hair falling across her vallaslin — barricading the chantry doors against an army of the undead. Bryn stepped forward to touch her, but she was gone, and the chantry had no ceiling. Just an open sky and a gust of lake breeze, and there were builders laying the first stones. A lay brother walked through crowds asking for donations. A scholar, reading from his book in a pew. An Orlesian general, his army laying siege to the village below, beheading a man crying out for the Maker. Darkspawn, burning the building to ash. A body, laying on the altar, red lyrium bursting from its stomach, dark blood spilling out...

Bryn punched his hand into the air as a scream overtook him. He shut his eyes tight, searching without seeing, begging his Mark to grip onto the Veil in his blindness. The green light of the rift shone through his eyelids as shrieks pierced the room. And then, like a loose thread snagging on a splintered piece of wood, he felt the familiar catch of his body as it connected to the rift. The yanking of his arm was so powerful this time that his shoulder nearly ripped from its socket. 

Bryn cried out, pain radiating down his arm, but he didn’t dare open his eyes. The shattered green light continued to spit from the rift, and the Veil tugged deep inside his chest. The images from the rift flashed through his head even with his eyes closed, bloody and unrelenting. The vision of the Hero of Ferelden danced by again and he grasped onto it, desperate, too terrified to think of anything else. Bryn tightened his grip on the Veil, his pulse beating fiercely down into his hands. He had heard the tales of her, of course, and seen the paintings, but he’d never dreamed he’d be this close to her, even if it was just some twisted Fade trick. He opened his eyes. There she was, Mahariel, her gaze fierce beneath her vallaslin. Sylaise’s, it had to be. The design was different than his clan’s, but the inked fire patterns curling across her forehead must be an ode to their Hearthkeeper. Sylaise was a humble member of the pantheon for the most famous Dalish in Thedas to carry on her face, Bryn thought, ripping his arm back against the straining rift. But how could Mahariel have known who she’d become at her Choosing? Maybe Bryn was imagining it now, but he felt the grip of the Veil stretch upward to his face, searing across the lines of his own vallaslin.

“Mythal guide me,” Bryn muttered as threw his body backward, pulling the rift with him.

With a sharp snap, his arm was freed from the Veil’s grip, and he fell hard onto the stone floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Bryn opened his eyes slowly, breathing in the dusty ground. His hands stung from landing on the stone, and he wasn't surprised to see deep scratches running across them as his eyes readjusted to the light. He felt a strange twinge in his stomach as he watched his blood fall in slow drops from his palms onto the chantry altar. The Inquisitor's blood. It felt like some sort of sacrifice, too similar to the image of the body punctured by red lyrium spilling blood in the very same spot.

Bryn let out a shallow breath before standing up. The rift sputtered feebly before him. It had put up a fight, even more so than usual, but he had done it — the Veil had begun to knit itself back together. And as far as he could tell, both the demons and the strange images were gone.

“Bryn!” Sera called, rushing across the chantry with the rest of their companions.

“All good, boss?” Bull said, voice tinged with worry, crossing the room twice as quickly as everyone else and pulling bandages out of his pack.

Bryn nodded as Bull took his hands and began to wrap them in the warm cotton cloth. He was always surprised by how gentle Bull’s handiwork was. Behind the qunari’s massive body, the mage was looking toward them, his face illuminated by the faint light of the dying rift. He tucked a strand of black hair behind his ear, almost ritualistically it seemed, ensuring that not a hair was out of place on his head or on the mustache curling above his lip. He stepped towards them with an air of dignity that Bryn doubted anyone else could achieve after being walked in on while beating demons to death with a stick.

“Stunning,” the man said breathlessly, eyeing Bryn’s hand. “Simply stunning. Didn’t expect there to be a rift in here when I set the meeting place, but I guess I got lucky.”

“Lucky?” Bryn raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, well, I got to see this rift-closing business up close. All anyone can talk about these days, you know.”

“And you are?” Sera stepped towards the mage, crossing her arms.

“Do you know how it works?” The man continued, fascinated, as if no one else had spoken. “Or do you just reach out and _boom_, rift gone?”

Bryn jerked his hand away. “What ever happened to a friendly ‘how do you do?’”

“Ah, my apologies,” the man laughed. “Getting ahead of myself again. Indeed, a proper introduction should come first. I am Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. _How do you do_?”

He reached out his hand for Bryn to shake. Large, golden rings glistened on his fingers, the most ornate of which sat on his ring finger. It was engraved with what looked to be a family crest, but it was scuffed beyond recognition, clearly the least cared for piece of jewelry on the man’s body. A thin, gold chain snaked its way from this ring up his leather gauntlet, meeting a double-headed dragon cuff just below his elbow.

“Watch yourself,” Bull muttered to Bryn. He eyed the man’s outstretched arm, his hands hovering near his axe. “He’s a Vint.”

“And a pretty one,” Sera said. “Pretty ones are always the worst.”

“Oh dear, how rude,” Dorian said, bringing his hand back to his side but looking quite unfazed by this reception. In fact, he grinned as he leaned back on his staff. “Suspicious friends you have here.”

“We don’t have very many allies,” Bryn said.

“Well then, I’m sure you’ll be quite glad to have me. Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be much appreciated.”

“And who says we want your assistance?” Bull said gruffly.

Dorian blinked. “Because I’m offering it?”

“I’m going to need a little more than that to trust another magister,” Bryn frowned.

“Alright, let’s say this once.” Dorian pursed his lips, his mood turning for the first time since they entered the chantry. His fingers flicked across the flame of a candle, the smoke staggering upwards. “I’m a mage from Tevinter, but I’m not part of the Magisterium. I know you Southerners don’t bother to learn the difference, but there is one.”

“Well, what’s the differ—”

“I can suggest some bedtime reading on Tevinter social classes later if you’d like,” Dorian snapped. “But right now we have more pressing concerns, as I’m sure you’re all well aware.”

And with that, Dorian ripped his eyes from Bryn and took off across the chantry, the tails of his robes swinging behind him. He peered out the windows, then opened door after door to the other halls of the building. A soft flame shone from his palm as he illuminated dusty corners and poked his head behind stone statues. Bryn tried to catch the eye of one of his companions, but both Bull and Vivienne were watching the galavanting mage keenly, and Sera had become very interested in the dirt underneath her fingernails.

“Where’s Felix?” Dorian said when he made it back to the altar, as if he had just remembered they were there. “He got the note to you, I trust? That’s why you’re here?”

“We met him at the tavern, but he left with his father,” Bryn said. “You sent him?”

“Yes, yes. Felix was my messenger. He was supposed to ditch his father and meet us here.”

Dorian slammed a closet door on the altar closed, and then stopped abruptly. Bryn could tell his mind was moving quickly, whirring far beyond this conversation.

“Not going to look under the pews?” Bryn said feebly.

“Hm?”

“You’ve covered every other inch of the chantry.”

“Oh,” Dorian laughed. “No, not in these robes. Don’t want to scuff the knees.”

“Maker,” Sera scoffed, throwing herself onto a pew and kicking up her feet. “Can we get a move on? This is getting pretty bloody close to the longest I’ve ever been in a chantry, and that’s not a record I want to break.”

“Yes,” Bryn said, striding towards Dorian with what he hoped looked like confidence. “You’re wasting our time. Why did you call us here? And what the hell was going on with that rift?”

“Look,” Dorian said, his tone darkening. He took a sudden step towards Bryn. They were now very close — closer than Bryn had anticipated. He had to look up to meet Dorian’s eye. “Alexius is dangerous, that much should be obvious even without my note. Refusing to talk in the open? Pulling the allegiance of the rebel mages out from under you? Reaching Redcliffe before the Inquisition, despite it being a physical impossibility?”

Dorian stepped back. He took a breath, seemingly the first one in several minutes.

“Alexius is bending time itself, and he’s doing a rather poor job of it.”

Bryn blinked, looking up at the man's face blankly.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s impossible,” Vivienne’s voice echoed softly through the now hushed chantry.

“Ah,” Dorian said, turning gracefully towards her. “Madame de Fer of the Montsimmard Circle, I believe?”

Vivienne crossed her arms. “You know of me?”

“Quite well. I’ve read almost all of your papers. News of you joining the Inquisition traveled fast.”

“I was under the impression that the Tevinter Imperium forbade the study of magic from the White Divine’s Circles.”

“Oh yes, Southern scholarship is quite forbidden,” Dorian smiled. “Your notes on the deconstruction of the four schools of magic are my favorite though. Simply ingenious.”

“Well, I — I’m— ” Vivienne stuttered, lost for words for the first time since Bryn had met her. “I can’t say I ever expected to receive a compliment from a member of the Imperium, but thank you.”

“Can you lot stop wanking off to bits of words and fancy paper so we can get out of here?” Sera said, flicking a speck of demon ash at Vivienne.

“I’d also appreciate it if we could get back to the time magic part of this conversation,” Bryn said, his marked hand twitching.

“Yes, very sorry dear,” Vivienne said hurriedly. “Mr. Pavus, if you are as well read as you claim to be, then you should know that my Circle has done the most research on time manipulation in all of Thedas — including the Imperium. That kind of magic has been studied throughout the ages, and time and time again we have reached the same conclusion: time manipulation is impossible.”

“Ah yes, but that was before the sky split open,” Dorian said, pointing his ringed fingers towards the ceiling. He began to pace around the altar, running his hands along the wooden pillars. “You saw the rift in here, how it twisted time around itself. Sped some things up and slowed some things down. Pulled together images from the past and future.”

“That’s what was happening?” Bryn asked.

"Yes, and soon there will be more rifts like it. This magic — time magic that Alexius is using — it’s wildly unstable. If we don’t stop it, it will unravel the world.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bryn said, but all of the air had left his lungs. “That doesn’t make sense. The Dalish have no knowledge of time manipulation either.”

“Then how else do you explain Alexius’ fortuitous arrival in Redcliffe under everyone’s nose? Your Inquisition sent scouts weeks ago, and no one reported anything about a big bad Tevinter magister. And yet everyone around here claims that Alexius has been here since the day after the Breach cracked open at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Curious, no?”

“That’s—” Bryn began, but faltered. “Unfaithful scouts and strange coincidences.”

“Come now, Inquisitor, you must be smarter than that. It’s too many coincidences, hm? Maybe if the clouds parted and the Maker walked down out of the heavens, presenting you as his Herald of Andraste with a big golden bow, then we can call all of this coincidence, or miracle, or whatever you’d like. But you and I both know that isn’t how you got that Mark.” Dorian stared at Bryn’s hand again. “There’s a logical explanation to this.”

"Oh yes, because make-believe magic is a logical explanation," Vivenne laughed harshly. 

But Bryn barely heard her. He raised his hand to his face. His Mark was shining through the bandages, pulsing lightly from its recent use. He hadn’t looked closely at this hand in weeks, much preferring to hide it under a glove for his own sanity. The novelty of his body being marked by some unknowable magic had worn off long ago, but the fear certainly hadn’t. The Mark had grown bigger, stretching along the natural creases of his palm and down onto his wrist, glowing the same sickly shade of green as when he first saw it. Bryn stuffed his hand into the pocket of his cloak, a knot forming in his stomach.

Dorian’s eyes had followed Bryn’s hand up to his face, and they remained there as Bryn pulled his hand away. Dorian’s gaze was intense and strange. Bryn didn’t quite know what to make of it. But there was something warm and deep about the copper glint of the evening sun reflected in his eyes that kept him from looking away.

“You know how I got my Mark?” Bryn asked breathlessly, his eyes locked onto the mage.

“No, I’m sorry,” Dorian said, his words soft. “But I do know it came from the Breach, and the Breach has everything to do with the magic Alexius is playing with.”

“And how do you know so much about this magic?” Vivienne asked sharply. Bryn jumped at her words. He had almost forgotten that there were others in the room. He looked away from Dorian quickly.

“Well,” Dorian said hesitantly, running his fingers through his mustache. “I helped Alexius develop it.”

“Excuse me, you _what_?”

“It was just theory, back when I was his apprentice.” Dorian spoke quickly, his words tinged with both guilt and pride. He stepped away from Vivienne. It was a good choice; the First Enchanter looked like she could breath fire in that moment. And for all Bryn knew, she very likely could. “We could never get it to work, not until the Breach.”

“Hold on." Sera sat up suddenly from her pew. "It would explain why Fiona didn’t remember us."

“What?” Bryn snapped as everyone turned towards her.

“If Alexius really did the time manipulatation thing or whatever you're calling it," Sera said. "Well then maybe Fiona really never did meet us in Orlais. Not in this timeline.”

“But time magic is impossible,” Vivienne said. She was growing more stern, as if they were a group of unruly students debating the sudden existence of four new moons. “It’s never been done—”

“Yeah, and there’s never been a bloody hole in the sky, has there?” Sera said. “You people never believe things that are right in front of your eyes, do you?”

“This is why you never trust a Vint,” Bull shook his head. “This is messed up. You don’t need to fuck with magic like this.”

“You believe this then, Iron Bull?” Vivienne said, rounding on the qunari.

“It never surprises me how low a Vint will go.”

Both Dorian and Vivienne opened their mouth to argue, but Bryn stepped between them.

“Enough,” he spit out loudly, the cacophony of voices starting to rattle painfully in his head. “Fine. Say Alexius really is bending time. Why?”

“Why indeed?” Dorian frowned, talking over Vivienne’s noises of protest. “Now we’re on the same page, Inquisitor. Seems like a bit overkill to rip time to shreds just to gain a couple hundred Southern rebels, yes?”

“He’s not doing it for the rebels,” a hoarse voice called from behind them.

Bryn turned to see a figure standing in one of the doorways that Dorian had burst open earlier. The man walked towards them with a slight limp.

“Felix!” Dorian nearly shouted, a smile cracking through his now very tense face. “Took you long enough.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Keep your voice down, would you?” Felix shook his hood off as he entered the main hall.

“Have you been followed?” Dorian asked, almost jogging down the aisle to meet him.

“Not yet, but it won’t be long before your yelling brings the whole village here, dumbass.”

Sera cackled from her pew, and Vivienne's stern face loosened into a satisfied smirk.

“Oh, how you embarrass me in front of my new friends,” Dorian said, reaching out an arm to help steady Felix as he reached him.

Felix laughed. He embraced Dorian, tucking his face into the mage’s chest. They didn’t let go of each other for several seconds. Bryn felt strange witnessing it, as if he was looking in through someone’s home window. The knot in his stomach shifted in a different way.

“You play the illness card?” Dorian asked as they broke apart.

“Yeah,” Felix nodded. “Really shouldn’t have though, I thought my father would never let me leave after that.”

Dorian gripped Felix’s arm, but he shrugged him off.

“I have news,” Felix said, his gaze shifting worriedly around the room. “Pretty bad news. It’s what we suspected, but my father, Alexius — he’s — well, he's joined the Venatorri.”

"Bastard," Dorian muttered, turning away and smacking his palm against a pillar.

"I know. I'm trying to figure out how long it's been—"

"Doesn't matter, does it?" 

"Well—"

"Would someone care to explain who the Venatorri are," Bryn interrupted, thoroughly annoyed by the onslaught of information now, the pain in his hands and shoulder beginning to gnaw at him more fiercely.

"They're proper Tevinter Imperium supremacists," Dorian spit, his face lined with loathing. "A new group that's been stirring, picking up strength."

"A cult, more like," Felix said.

“And what do they want?” Iron Bull asked, letting the hilt of his axe fall to the floor with a heavy thud.

“Well,” Felix took a nervous half step away from Bull and turned to Bryn. “The Inquisitor.”

Bryn felt the weight of every head in the room turn to look at him. It wasn’t a surprise, not anymore.

“I’m flattered.”

“And I’m jealous,” Dorian said, sitting down on the altar steps and stretching out his long legs. He couldn't seem to keep still, his fingers tapping on the stone. “Why’d no one from Tevinter ever want me like that?”

Felix flashed Dorian the briefest look of annoyance before turning back to Bryn, shaking his head. “My father knew that seeking you out directly was too risky. Going through the rebel mages was the best way to reach you, ‘cause they were the only group down here weak enough for him to seize control of so quickly."

"And the Inquisition was bound to go to the mages for help at some point," Dorian added.

“Getting to the mages before your people was the only tricky part, since there’s no way he could’ve gotten here first from Tevinter. Hence—”

“Time magic,” Bryn said, a wave of understanding crashing over him.

Dorian and Felix nodded.

“So Alexius set up this false negotiation with us about the rebel mage support and then... what? He’s going to—”

“Kidnap you, yes,” Felix said bluntly. “Or kill you. I’m not quite sure on that detail.”

“And just why should we trust you?” Vivienne asked, stepping forward. “Alexius is your father, yes? Why are you betraying him?”

“Same reason as his ex-apprentice.” Felix glanced down at Dorian. “I loved him once, but he’s gone mad. He’s trying to cure me, but he—"

Felix stopped abruptly. He sighed deeply, running his hands through his hair. Dorian jumped up from the steps to grip his arm again.

"See, I'm very ill, and no healer has been able to tell us why," Felix continued weakly. "I assume you can see that money is no issue for us, so it’s — well, that’s beside the matter. I accepted my fate long ago, but my father is obsessed with saving my life. He’s tried anything. And now he’s convinced this magic is the answer.”

Bryn looked at Felix's face for the first real time since he'd met him. His skin was gaunt and ashen, and if he hadn't already seen it, Bryn would have guessed he'd be too weak to walk. Dorian's fingers dug into the fabric of his loose shirt, holding on tightly. 

“I'm sorry,” Bryn said stiffly, feeling again like he was looking onto something private. “But what does that all have to do with me?”

“Well, he’s obsessed with you too." Felix shook his arm lightly out of Dorian's grip, stepping towards Bryn. “This whole cult is. But I don’t know why. Maybe because you survived the Temple—”

“You survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes, you walked out of the Breach with a glowing hand, you’re closing rifts left right and center, saving people’s crops and cows and husbands and wives and children — and that’s without even mentioning your hair,” Dorian said, staring at Bryn intensely. “There’s a reason the whole damn world is obsessed with you.”

Felix eyed Dorian curiously, his brow furrowed. “They see you as a threat, Inquisitor,” he said, still turned to Dorian. "If your powers are coming from the same source, then you may be the only one that could stop them.”

“And we must stop them,” Dorian said. “That magic is unstable. It’s already messing with the time around Redcliffe. We don’t want to see what happens if he takes it any further.”

A silence fell across the room. The chantry had grown dark without Bryn noticing, the sun having set deep below the lake. A few candles remained flickering, their long shadows dancing on the walls. His stomach turned as his eyes flashed across the demon remains on the floor, remembering the way the rift had twisted reality beyond anything recognizable. Bryn had no idea what to make of all this information, and even less so of the man presenting it to them. He hoped it was dim enough that no one could make out the blush lingering on the back of his neck. 

“So what should I do?” Bryn said at last, his voice catching in his throat.

“Well, step one is to stand up my father’s offer for negotiations,” Felix said quickly, clearly relieved that they had made it to this point. “You heard him, he refuses to talk anywhere except the Redcliffe castle. It is obviously a trap.”

“And then talk to your Inquisition about the best way to capture him,” Dorian said. “You have the means to do this, yes?”

Bryn looked towards Vivienne. She sighed, tapping her thumbs on her staff before responding.

“Whether or not this is true time magic—”

“It is,” Dorian mumbled.

“This Alexius is a threat,” Vivienne finished, pursing her lips. “I don’t like the idea of an Imperium magister meddling in things. We’ll take this information to Leliana and Cassandra, and see what they think of it.”

"Thank you, Enchanter Vivienne." Dorian gave her a small bow. 

“It is decided then,” Felix said. “I suggest you all leave quickly, and I must return to my father." 

"What?" Dorian's head darted up. "Going so soon?"

"Dorian," Felix said weakly, his eyes entirely desperate. "Don't—" 

"Right," Dorian's tone was suddenly very cold. He looked away. "No, go on. We don't want your father to get suspicious." 

Felix's face trembled. For a moment, Bryn thought he was going to cry, but then he gave them all a curt nod. 

"Dorian will know how to contact me," he said before exiting the way he came as fast as his limp would allow. He did not look back. Dorian let out a deep sigh, and then circled the chantry to put out the remaining lit candles with his fingertips.

“So we're done here?” Sera jumped up from her pew.

“Indeed," Vivienne said, conjuring a flame in her hands as the chantry fell into near blackness. "And where will you be going, Mr. Pavus?”

“Well,” Dorian turned to face Bryn, pausing at the last candle. He took a breath before speaking again, his sharp features illuminated by the feeble light of the flame. “I believe Felix and I just saved your life, Inquisitor. Surely this will be enough for you to accept my help?”

Bryn let out a tired sigh, his eyes meeting Dorian's in the dark. 

“Yes,” Bryn said, reaching out his hand. “Your help will be greatly appreciated.”

“Excellent,” Dorian beamed, grasping Bryn’s hand with both of his. His hands were strong, and still warm from the fire he had just put out. “Mutual appreciation is a grand way to begin.”


End file.
